


Two Scarred Souls

by spiderfire



Series: The Legacy of Thénardier [1]
Category: Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, Catholic Character, Child Abuse, Christmas, Gen, Implied or Off-stage Rape/Non-con, Imprisonment, Missing Scene, Parenthood, This is not how an abuse survivor should be treated, Valjean tries
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-10
Updated: 2013-07-10
Packaged: 2017-12-18 08:45:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,270
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/877890
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spiderfire/pseuds/spiderfire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A month after his escape from Toulon, Valjean rescues Cosette from the Thénardiers.  As they get to know each other and come to love each other, he learns of the abuse she suffered and he does his best to help her.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Two Scarred Souls

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Miss M (missm)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/missm/gifts).



> This story is based on a kinkmeme prompt. It has been extensively revised, thanks to the amazing input and feedback from drcalvin, stephantom and lsl. They asked great questions and did not let me get away with anything. :) Thank you!

Valjean paused where the dirt road left Montfermeil and considered his options. He could cut across the fallow fields or he could chance the road to Paris. The crescent moon was setting behind him and before long the night would be very dark. He had travelled halfway across France over the last month, keeping his freedom by staying off the busy roads. Until tonight, he had always travelled alone. Looking down at the little person who met his gaze with wide, adoring eyes, he realized Cosette would struggle across the uneven ground of the open fields. With an unspoken prayer, he opted for the road, trusting the dark of the night to keep them hidden. 

They walked for maybe half a league of the four leagues that separated Montfermeil and Paris when Cosette started to stagger and shiver. Dropping to one knee and removing his baggy yellow coat, Valjean settled her on his back and draped the coat over her and across his shoulders. After a few minutes, she warmed up and relaxed. She laid her head on his shoulder and fell asleep to his rocking, uneven walk. Three months in the chain had been enough to amplify the limp that he had worked for years to hide. 

These last few months, since his sentence had been commuted from execution to a life of forced labor, he had sustained himself with the prayer that God had answered tonight. Through the humiliating hours he had spent collared to a pole at the start of his sentence while crowds came to jeer and sneer at the bourgeois mayor laid low, through his second chain gang to Toulon, through the first few weeks when he had allowed himself to settle into the rhythm of the bagne and to become conditioned again to the work, and then through the weeks of careful planning for the escape, he had prayed for this moment. 

“Thank you, Lord,” Valjean whispered into the night. Her small weight, the gentle pressure of her breathing on his back, brought him a dimly remembered peace. He could not place the feeling – perhaps it was when his sister had put her first-born in his arms and he had marveled at the tiny fingers wrapping around his already work-hardened hands, or perhaps it went back further to the days he was a boy and his father had carried him home after a long day at the market. There was a completeness in this moment that was unlike anything he had experienced, in decades, if not ever. 

Hours passed and they walked by a tiny village church celebrating midnight mass. A carol rang out from its stone walls and the tune, one he had known since boyhood, stuck in his head. Tonight, though, the words seemed to be speaking directly to him.  
 _May winter by its cold weather have hardened the plain,_  
 _if it believes it will stop our steps this hope is in vain._  
 _When one seeks a God full of charms, one does not fear pain._  
He smiled. This Christmas night, a child had come to his keeping. Feeling her limp weight against his back, this little being who had put her trust in him so completely, he marveled at God’s gift. 

***

Valjean groaned as he woke the next morning. Sleeping on the wooden floor was not so different from the plank he had slept on in Toulon, but sleeping on a hard surface was taking its toll after all these years. As he opened his eyes, he saw a dirty face staring down at him curiously. He had fallen asleep sitting on the floor next to her bed, holding her hand. When he opened his eyes, she broke into an uncertain smile. 

Valjean reached up to brush a clump of hair back from her face. “Good morning, angel,” he said softly.

She looked around the room. It was a simple room, but clean. A small bed, a chair, a chest of drawers. Valjean watched, as she tried to puzzle out her surroundings. She turned back to him and asked, “Papa?”

He smiled gently at her. “That’s right, Cosette. You are my daughter now.” 

She sat up in the bed, pushing the covers back. “Why are you on the floor?” she asked. 

He sat up. “I fell asleep sitting with you. It was not so bad.” 

She turned and put her feet on the floor. “Shall I sweep?” she asked, “Where is the broom?”

Startled, he stared at her. “No, no, my dear,” he said, shaking his head. “No, I do not want you to clean.” 

“I can knit. Do you need socks?”

He shook his head. “No, no socks.” 

Frowning, she wrapped her tiny red hands in the rags she wore. “Then what shall I do?”

“Well, first I thought we would eat some breakfast. You must be hungry! Then I thought you could use a bath. I have some new clothes for you.” 

Valjean did not understand the haunted look that passed over her face before it closed. Suddenly expressionless, she said, almost mechanically, “Yes, Papa.” 

He frowned at her in confusion but he did not press her. He held out a hand. “Come, Cosette, I have some cheese and apples in the other room. Let us break our fast together.” 

****

Valjean set out the food and sat at the table. Cosette watched as she stood nervously in the center of the room, unsure of what to do. A day ago, the Thénardiers had made her sit under the table, eating the burned scraps from the kitchen. Uncertainly, he smiled at her and she seemed to relax slightly. “Sit, please?” he asked. She pulled out the other chair and perched on the edge. Her nervous, slightly frightened eyes never left him.

Valjean sliced an apple and put it with a few thick slices of cheese on a plate. He slid the plate over to her. At first, Cosette seemed reluctant to take the food. “Here, try an apple,” he encouraged her. She looked at it and then took it, hesitantly. “Go on, try it,” he said. She took a tiny bite and he was rewarded with the look of surprised delight on her face. 

“It is so sweet!” she said. 

Valjean picked up a slice of apple and took a generous bite himself. “It’s because it is winter. Eat this sort in the fall and…” he made a face, sticking out his tongue. Again she smiled. “They need to sit for a turn before they sweeten up.” He sliced off another wedge and held it out. 

Once she started eating, she ate with a speed that Valjean recognized all too well. As she ate, he remembered….her name was gone, but she was in the middle of his sister’s brood. She had sat on the floor eating so carefully. She had not dropped a crumb and had licked every drop of juice from her fingers when she was done.

Valjean took a bite of cheese and focused on the girl with him now, on Cosette. Reaching out, he put his hand lightly on her arm. She froze and looked at him wide-eyed, like a rabbit staring down the barrel of his poacher’s gun, a rabbit who knew itself caught. He tried to make his voice gentle, “I know it is hard, but slow down, Cosette. If you eat too fast, you might get sick.” 

She pulled her arm away from his hand, carefully. He let it slide away and something shifted in her face. She gave him another hesitant smile and took a deliberate small bite of the apple. “Yes, Papa.” 

Together they finished the apples and the wedge of cheese. 

Before they had sat down to breakfast, he had stoked the fire. Now several kettles were warming over the flames. “I’ll set the bath in here, by the fire,” he told her, “so you do not get cold.” 

“Will you go…first?” The tentative camaraderie that had formed during breakfast burst like a soap bubble. For a few moments it had been a delicate thing of shimmering beauty and then it was gone, leaving only a memory. Her eyes became hooded, shifting to the side so she did not meet his, but still watching him, always watching. Her voice shook as she spoke. 

Valjean shook his head, puzzled by her mood shift. Something about it seemed familiar, but he could not place it. “No, this bath is for you. I have been as dirty as you are, and it is going to take some scrubbing to find some skin under all of that dirt. It will feel good to be clean.”

Again, she gave him that haunted look. He did not understand, so he took refuge in the concrete. He set up the tub, pouring the water in and laying out soap and wash rags. “Cosette, you get started. I am going to get more water and let you wash. Can I leave you by yourself for a few minutes?” 

Wide eyed, she nodded. “Yes, Papa.” He picked up the water buckets and left. 

When he came back, he knocked on the door. “May I come in?” he called. She did not answer, though he did hear the sound of water. “Cosette?”

After a moment, she answered, “Yes, Papa?” 

“May I come in, angel?” 

“Yes?” Her voice trembled. 

He pushed open the door and brought the water buckets in. He set them down by the hearth, stoked the fire, refilled the kettles and set them to warm. “Let’s see how you are doing,” he said brightly as he turned to face her. Only her head was visible above the edge of the tub. She had managed to scrub the dirt off her cheeks and forehead, but the around her eyes and nose were still dirty. He grinned at her as he picked up a looking glass and carried it over so she could see. “You look like a polecat,” he said. “I think you missed a few spots.” 

Looking at herself in the mirror, she laughed. “I will try again, Papa.”

He sat next to the bath, helping her wash the soap out of her hair and scrub the dirt from her fingernails. He held her fingers in his hand and looked at her arm. Two uneven blotches of ropey flesh stood out against her white skin. Burns, he thought. One was years old, the skin was shiny and smooth; the other was more recent, healed but still pink. With a deep sigh, he soaped a cloth so she could scrub her arm. As he helped her, he found other scars in various stages of healing, and also recent bruises and cuts scattered over her body. 

By the end of the bath, she was cleaner and he understood exactly what sort of care the Thénardiers had given her. The marks on her body told half the story, but the frightened eyes that watched him so carefully and the way her mood would shift from playful to scared, uncertain to bold, were so unlike the other children he had known and that told the rest. 

The other times he had seen that expression, those reactions, it had been in the eyes of men, other prisoners at Toulon. Often it was the young ones, the new ones, whose beards had not yet grown fully and whose muscles had not yet hardened under the years of relentless work. Tender meat, pretty boys, such men were called. They attracted far more attention than they could handle. Sometimes, they got lucky, but all too often they were coupled to a veteran who would exact a price for his tutelage and protection. Valjean himself – by virtue of his age or the luck of the draw on his first partner, he did not know - had escaped this fate, but he had seen it happen over and over. For a while, before his last escape attempt, he had been coupled to a man – a boy really, not yet 20 - who had been badly abused by his first partner. They had never spoken of it, that was the code of the bagne, but “married” to Jean-le-Cric, no one touched him. In that year, Valjean had watched as his partner had worked himself to exhaustion each day so he could sleep through the night. As the days turned into weeks and months, the boy had hardened into a convict, loosing the last traces of his civilian persona. The silent, haunted expression he had had when they were first coupled had become a bitter, sarcastic shell. Only rarely, in a quiet rest moment or in the depths of the night, would their eyes meet and Valjean would realize that the terrified boy was still there. Briefly, Valjean wondered what had become of him. 

By the time the bath was over, the water was cold and Cosettte was shivering. He knelt next to her and wrapped her in an old, clean blanket. He rubbed her arms through the blanket before pulling her into a hug. 

“How does it feel to be clean?” he asked her. 

She smiled. “It is nice not to itch.”

He smiled back. “I know what you mean. It will probably take another bath or two before we really get all the dirt off, but the worst is gone.”

She nodded, watching him cautiously. That uncertain look, when he realized what she was probably thinking, made his stomach twist. He turned quickly away before she could see the look on his face. 

“I have a new dress for you.” He got up off his knees and went over to the chest of drawers and pulled out the simple black mourning dress and stockings he had bought for her. “Let’s see if it fits.” 

As she tried on the clothes, he cleaned up from the bath, purposefully keeping his back to her. He picked up the pile of dirty rags that she had discarded and tossed them in the fire and then turned to see how she was doing. Scrubbed clean and rosy cheeked, she was still clearly a plain child. Her face was too angular, her hair was too thin, and though this dress was an acceptable fit, it did nothing to improve her appearance. Grimly, he thought of his former chain-mate. It was better that she was plain. It was better to not attract attention. 

She was struggling to run a comb through her hair. “Can I help you?” he asked. 

He could see her hesitate but then she nodded and held out the comb. Valjean sat on the chair and she came over and stood by him. He took the comb and started to work the tangles. “Let me know if I hurt you,” he says. “It has been a long time since I have done this for a little girl.” 

As he worked on her hair, patiently pulling each tangle apart, she reached up to his head and pulled his knit cap off. “Papa,” she said, “your hair is so short. And so white.” 

“It is longer than it was. It is growing back in.” He took the cap back and put it back on his head. “My head gets cold, without the hat.” 

“Why did you cut it short, then?”

He gently turned her so she was facing away and worked on the next section of her hair. She could not see the haunted look that crossed his face as he remembered recent haircuts: sitting before the convict who served as barber at Toulon, and a month ago, in the back room of the tavern where he had bought civilian clothes and sawed off his shackle, he had shaved the convict’s haircut down to skin. 

He drew his attention back to Cosette and working the comb through her fine, soft hair. Combing her hair out took a long time. 

**

The day passed quietly. Once the grooming was done, she again offered to sweep, to fetch water, to bring in wood but whenever she asked what she could do, he told her “Play!” So, she played with Catherine as he tended to the basic chores. He listened as he told Catherine stories of castles and princesses and kindly kings. Late in the afternoon, they went out to the market to buy more apples and cheese and bread. Night came early in the winter and by the time they returned to their rooms, it was dark. 

Tired after the previous night’s travels, she curled up in his lap and he read her stories from the Bible. After a while, he looked down and realized that she had fallen asleep. For an hour, Valjean sat with Cosette sleeping in his lap, lightly stroking her hair, marveling at the peace he felt. He thought of Fantine and wondered if she was watching. 

He did not know when he fell asleep, but the dream, when it came, was a familiar one. He was running, always running, chased by faceless guards in their blue uniforms. This time, as he ran, he felt Cosette’s small weight clinging to his back. “Hold on!” he said to her, putting on a burst of speed. He felt her begin to slip and her panicked grip at his collar. With a heave, he resettled her. He ran up an alley, only to come up to a dead end. He spun around to face the guards, clinging to her small legs wrapped around his waist. 

“Papa? Papa! Wake up!” 

Valjean was torn from the dream and he sat up suddenly. He opened his eyes to see Cosette standing in front of him, tears and panic in her eyes. “Papa? What’s wrong?” she demanded. 

He took a few deep breaths and brought himself back to the present. He forced a weak smile onto his face and returned his gaze to her, shaking his head. “Just a bad dream, Cosette. Just a bad dream.”

“You scared me, Papa.” 

“I am sorry, Cosette.” He pinched the bridge of his nose and rubbed his fingers outwards, letting the rough skin on his fingertips scratch against his eyelids. He used the moment to remember the wonder of the last day, to try and banish the fear, but instead it only solidified into a solid mass in his gut. Opening his eyes, he asked, “Do you have bad dreams, Cosette?”

Wide eyed, she nodded to him. 

He opened his arms and she came into them. “Thank you for waking me,” he said to her. “I did not mean to scare you.” 

Tremulously, she smiled at him. “Don’t worry, Papa.” 

***

A few quiet days passed. New Year’s day came and went while Valjean and Cosette got to know each other. Valjean read to her from the Bible and began teaching her letters. Cosette told him elaborate stories where Catherine went on grand adventures. Valjean made her an ingenious little bird out of twigs that tottled across floor when nudged. Cosette named the bird Henri, and Henri became Catherine’s best friend. 

During these days, Cosette began to grow comfortable with Valjean. She smiled more easily and she stopped watching him with that expression he recognized from his own face, the look of, “When is the next blow coming?” Then there were times when he would realize that the room had gotten quiet and he would find her in the corner, silently weeping. Sometimes, she would allow him to gather her in his arms and the silent weeping would turn to outright sobbing and he would hold her until she calmed down. Other times, she would recoil from his gentle hand on her shoulder and he would snatch it back as if it were burned. Those times, he did the only thing he could think of - he would sit with her and when she seemed calm, he would try and draw her into a story or a meal. 

When Sunday rolled around, it was sunny and mild and they prepared to go to church together. Valjean had worked with her every day, helping her learn the Lord’s Prayer. She had worked hard and now as she brushed her hair out, she mouthed the words in Latin he had taught her. _“Pater noster qui es in cœlis; sanctificatur nomen tuum…”_ He smiled at her in pride. 

Turning away, he attended to his own hair. The knit cap would never do in church. He removed a curly brown-haired wig from its hiding place and pulled it on his head. Cosette was done brushing her hair and was watching him. “Cosette?” he asked. “Can you bring the mirror over here and hold it for me?” Puzzled, she complied and he produced jar of paint to darken his eyebrows. 

As he examined his work in the mirror, Cosette watched. He could see the questions in her eyes but before she could ask them, he stood. “Let’s go,” he said brusquely, holding out his hand to her. 

Hand in hand, they walked to the church. The mild weather lifted her spirits and drove the questions from her mind, at least for the moment. She skipped next to him, dancing around at the end of his arm. He smiled and laughed at her antics, occasionally spinning her unexpectedly. 

As they approached, the church bells pealed and Cosette looked up. Although Église Saint-Médard was not one of Paris’s grand cathedrals, it was still much more elaborate than the tiny church in Montfermeil. With a wide open mouth, she entered the nave and stood in the center, turning slowly around as she took in the elaborate sunburst of stonework over the altar, the gleaming pipes of the great organ, the great medallion windows high overhead and row upon row of vaulted ceilings, climbing up to the sky. “Papa…” she spoke in a reverent whisper, “it is beautiful.” 

Tousling her hair, he nodded. “Yes.” He walked with her over to a large painting hanging in one of the side chapels. “What is going on in this picture?” he asked her. 

She studied the painting and then shook her head. “I do not know, Papa. Who is that man with his hands up? Why are the woman and the man kneeling?” 

Valjean looked at her. “The woman is Mary and the man is Joseph. Do you remember who they are?” 

After a moment, she nodded. “They are Jesus’s parents? Right? Only Joseph is not really his father?” She frowned in confusion. 

Valjean nodded. “You have a good memory,” he said and she beamed at him. “This scene is their wedding and the man with the pointy hat, he is the priest who is marrying them.” 

“Oh!” she said. 

The organ began to play, filling the church with its sound. Cosette’s eyes widened as the bass line thundered out of the instrument. “Come,” he said, “Mass is about to start.” 

Valjean usually put all his focus in the service and following along with the Latin he only barely understood but today he found himself watching Cosette. Each time the organ played or the chorus sang out or the incense was brought forth, her face lit up in a kind of delight. And when it came time to recite the Lord’s Prayer, the look of pride she gave him when she could say it along with the rest of the congregation filled him with an emotion that, until now, had been so rare in his life. Happiness. 

After Mass was over, they walked out into the morning sun. They heard the howls of laughter as several children ran by, chasing each other around the church yard. Cosette looked up at Valjean, “Do you think they will let me play, Papa?”

“I do not see why not, Cosette. Do you want to go ask them?” 

She sucked in her lip and bit it nervously. “Do you think they know Eponine? They won’t want to play with me if they know her.” 

Valjean shook his head. “No, Cosette, they do not know Eponine. No one here knows you.” 

“Really, Papa? You mean it?” 

He put his hand on her shoulder and gave her a gentle push of encouragement. “Go on. I will be here.” 

Leaning against a pillar in the shadow of a buttress, he watched as she ran off and approached another girl. There was a brief exchange and then she was running around with the others. As he watched her play, he quietly marveled at how this week had changed his life. Not even a year earlier, a very different week had ended his life in Montreuil-sur-Mer. A week is such a short time, when held up against a lifetime, and yet the biggest transitions in his life had all happened within a week. 

A few minutes later, Valjean called to Cosette and she came running back. Together, they walked home. 

“Papa,” she said as they walked, “Why is six afraid of seven?” 

Frowning, he looked down at her. “I don’t know?” 

She looked up with an impish grin. “Because seven eight nine!” 

He looked at her quizzically. 

“Do you understand, Papa? Seven ate nine?” 

Suddenly realizing that she was making a joke, he laughed. “Yes, Cosette. I get it. Did you learn that from the other children?” 

She grinned. “Want to hear another?” 

“Sure,” he said. 

“Why would the baby bear not put on his socks?” 

Very seriously, he looked back at her. “I do not know. Why would the baby bear not put on his socks?” 

Ready to burst, she shouted out, “Because then he would not have bare feet!” 

With an eye roll and a chuckle, he walked on. “That is funny.” 

She skipped by his side as they made their way home. 

****

Later, he heated water for another bath. Now that the years of grime had been scrubbed off, Valjean figured that Cosette could manage for herself. After setting up the bath, he left to sit in the other room and read while she washed. 

She had been in the bath for a long time, far longer than he thought was necessary, when he knocked on the door. “Cosette?” he called softly. “Do you need help?” 

When she answered, her voice was broken by tears. “Yes, Papa.” 

Valjean pushed the door open and entered the room. She was sitting in the tub, shivering, with tears running down her face. “What’s wrong, angel?” he asked gently. 

Cosette looked down. “It won’t come off,” she said. 

He came over to see where she was looking and found that she was staring at the puckered burn scars on her arm. She had the cloth and she had been scrubbing them. The skin on her arm was red and angry. “Oh, Cosette,” he said. “No, they do not wash off.” 

Tears were running down her face as she watched him. He looked at her, trying to figure out what to do. With something that felt like a snap within him, he made his decision. “Cosette,” he said softly, “You are clean. Come out of there before you freeze.” 

Valjean helped her out of the tub and wrapped her in the blanket. Kneeling, he hugged her fiercely, his hand cupping her head close to him. Then he let her go and sat back on his heels. This was going to be hard enough for her, she should at least have the security of clothes. “Get dressed, please? While I clean up the bathtub?” 

For a couple of minutes, neither of them spoke as they went about their own tasks. When she was done dressing, Valjean knelt down beside her again, so they were eye to eye. “Cosette,” he said quietly. “There is something you should see. It…is not an easy thing. But it is important.” 

Wide eyed and nervous, she watched him. 

He carefully unbuttoned his shirt while she watched. Vividly, he remembered unlacing the red tunic, the uniform of the convict, pulling it over his head, and handing it over to a guard. Hundreds of other convicts had watched as, naked to the waist, he had knelt to be flogged. With a grim look, he removed his shirt and let her look. She reached out but then pulled her hand back, immediately before she made contact. “You can touch them,” he whispered hoarsely. She ran her fingers over the ridges on his scarred wrists, the puckered line on his chest where he had been stabbed and then she walked around behind him and he felt the tiny cool fingers trace the marks the floggings had left on his back. 

“Did you cry?” she asked in a whisper. 

He closed his eyes and bowed his head, trying to banish the memories of the moments that created the scars. In those moments, no, he had never cried. Now though, when Cosette’s tiny voice asked that question, not in innocence but in empathy, he felt his eyes fill. He quickly wiped his eyes and turned to face her. He reached up with a damp finger to brush a tear from her cheek. “We do not speak of our scars, Cosette. Not ever.” He heard the years of study fall from his voice as he spoke. He spoke now, as himself, without the mask. His voice was coarse, the peasant’s accent thick. “Some of the scars can be seen. Others are here,” he touched his forehead and then hers, “and here,” he touched his chest over his heart and hers, “and only God knows they are there.” 

“How did you…” 

He shook his head and spoke gently but firmly. “No, Cosette. We do not speak of the terrible things that were done to us. Do you understand?” 

Mutely, she nodded. 

“Promise me, you won’t speak of it.” 

In a small voice, she said, “I won’t speak of it, Papa. I promise.” 

With a nod of approval, he smiled at her gently. After a moment, she tremulously smiled back. “Good girl,” he said gently. “Strong girl.” 

Her smile firmed slightly. 

He took both of her hands in his, holding them lightly so she could pull away if she chose. “Know this, my angel. Those things were done to us. We had no choice. None of it is your fault, no matter what they told you.”

She looked at him through wide eyes, brimming with tears. “Madame said…” 

“Shhhh,” he said. “She lied to you, Cosette. What they did to you, was not your fault. It was not for your good. Say it.” 

“It was not my fault,” she said in a faltering voice. 

He nodded again, “Brave girl,” he said gently. “No matter how terrible the things that were done to us were, they are not who we are. We make the person we are by our choices and our actions. Every day, we choose the person we want to be. With God’s grace, we choose a path that will make less suffering in the world, not more. You and I, we have suffered enough.”

He could tell she did not understand yet. Understanding would come, with time. It had taken the Bishop and years of prayer before he had understood. She was young; perhaps it would be easier for her. 

He opened his arms and she came into them. He wrapped her in his arms, breathing her clean scent. Resting her head against Valjean’s chest, she asked, “Papa?”

“Yes?” 

“Do they heal, the marks? Do they go away?” 

Gently stroking her hair, resting his chin on the top of her head, he realized something within himself had been healing for the past week. In quiet wonder, he answered, “Sometimes, Cosette. With time and patience and love. Sometimes they do heal.”

**Author's Note:**

> The carol at the beginning is the third verse of a 16th century French carol, "Ça, Bergers, assemblons nous". 
> 
> The painting described at Église Saint-Médard is actually there and sacred painting or not, it is a piece of comically bad Bible fan-art. There are countless historical mistakes - clearly an artist who did not bother to do pretty much any research at all.


End file.
